


St. Benezets

by imkerfuffled



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Not actually a proposal fic despite what it looks like, Pre-Canon, You pick which
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-04-03 17:25:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4108987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imkerfuffled/pseuds/imkerfuffled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before Matt Murdock ever came on the scene, when Fisk was still in the beginning stages of creating his criminal empire, he brought Wesley to meet his mother. The reason why, he wouldn't say until they were in the nursing home itself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	St. Benezets

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously what even is this
> 
> (hang on, is this the first fic I've written about these two where they actually speak? wow)
> 
> Also, I have absolutely nothing against old people; Weasley just struck me as the kind of person who would.

St. Benezets was stately, regal, more than befitting a place for well-to-do senior citizens to spend their last days in. Its high, vaulted ceilings and elegant color designs gave off the aura of a modern palace, complete with catered food that appeared legitimately edible. The people, seen shuffling down the hallways in various stages of mobility, clearly lived the life of luxury. 

It made Wesley’s skin crawl. 

Something about the elderly put him on edge. Alone, or in small groups, he could reluctantly handle them, but in mass concentration at a place like this… He never knew what to do, what to say. He couldn’t predict how their deteriorating minds would react to anything, and it put him at the disadvantage. 

“Remind me again what we’re doing here,” he hissed, somewhat harshly, to Fisk walking down the hall beside him. “And don’t give me any of the lies you told Leland. Why did you bring _me_?” 

Leland, while handling the costs of keeping Wilson’s mother at the nursing home, knew her only as ‘Mrs. Vistain.’ He could guess her real significance, of course, from Wilson’s weekly visits—despite his dimwitted act, Leland was every bit as sharp as his paycheck suggested —but neither Wilson nor Wesley would ever confirm his suspicions. 

“I told you,” Fisk said, “We are visiting my mother.” 

Wesley fought the urge to sigh and roll his eyes. He could tell the effort his employer put into making the words sound normal, not rough and forced. In his own way, this place made Wilson just as uncomfortable as it did Wesley. 

“If…” he began again, sensing Wesley’s dissatisfaction with his answer, “If something… were to… happen… to me—” 

“You’re not going to die,” scoffed Wesley with a tad more force than was strictly necessary. He knew better than to believe it would be the end of the conversation though. 

“Nobu’s men are trained killers, and they do not trust me. I need to be prepared for every possibility,” Fisk said quietly, failing now to keep the hesitation out of his voice. 

“No, but they trust your paycheck. As long as that keeps coming, they won’t dare make a move against you,” Wesley sighed irritably, “I _told_ you hiring them was a bad idea. We don’t know what their agenda is, they don’t provide anything we can’t get elsewhere, and they’re asking so much in return—” 

“We’ve been over this, Wesley!” Wilson’s voice rose too loud, and it drew the attention of a passing elderly couple with matching walkers, shooting angry glares at Wilson for disturbing the quiet. Out of reflex more than any desire to calm them, Wesley fell quickly into his role as mediator, flashing a charming, apologetic smile at the pair and placing a barely-registered hand on his employer’s arm. 

“As… I’ve… said….” Fisk struggled to form his mouth around the syllables, “If we’re going up against Rigoletto, we will need them on our side. It is not your place to question me!” 

Wesley flinched away almost imperceptibly, not because he feared Wilson would lash out at him in one of his blind rages, but because of the strict reminder of his position. When it came down to it, they were not friends, and nor could Wesley afford them to be. They were an employer and his employee. Regardless of how much Wesley had grown to care for him, they would never be equals. 

He forgot that sometimes. 

The hurt expression on his face lasted less than an instant before he masked it with his signature contemptuous smirk that Leland called unsettling. “As I’m assuming you didn’t bring me here just to yell at me,” he snapped, “Get to the point.” 

Fisk looked away at the paintings (actual paintings, not stock photos put in picture frames) lining the hall, and Wesley couldn’t see to gauge his reaction. It could be any number of things: irritation at being talked back to, or regret for losing his temper in such a crowded place, or something completely unrelated to the conversation, and instead having to do with the emotions tied to their surroundings—and Wesley would have to carefully tailor himself to fit whatever need. 

“I’m… sorry…” Fisk said, turning back to face him. Wesley tilted his head slightly and allowed his expression to open in a silent question. “You were… just… expressing your concern. I know. I shouldn’t have — It’s just, this place…” 

“I know,” Wesley said softly. 

“It makes you… uneasy as well, doesn’t it?” 

Wesley took a deep breath and let it out. “I don’t like old people in large numbers. They smell like stale cologne and death,” he admitted shamelessly, scowling at an old lady who shook her cane at him. 

“A… physical reminder of your own mortality?” 

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Wesley grimaced, “Just, tell me whatever you brought me here for will be quick.” 

As if on cue, Fisk came to a stop near the end of the hallway, in front of a simple yet elegant door. His mouth moved as if he was fumbling to say something, so Wesley said it for him. “This is her room?” 

Fisk nodded, but made no move to open the door, choosing instead to stand with his arms awkwardly at his sides. His mouth opened and closed again, hesitantly, still searching for the words to speak his original point: their purpose for being there. 

“I need… to know…” he grunted, “That… if I _am_ … killed...” He didn’t notice Wesley stiffening involuntarily as he continued, steadier now, “I need to know she’ll be taken care of. And I… I don’t know anyone I can better trust with that than you.” 

“Oh.” Wesley blinked, wishing he could quell the twinge of guilt he felt for snapping earlier. “I—Well then.” He regarded Fisk for a moment with confusion, unwilling to admit that the request took him completely off guard. “Why?” he wanted to ask. Instead, what came out of his mouth was, “You could have told me that _without_ dragging me to a nursing home halfway across the city.” 

“I want her to be happy,” Fisk said, “Not stuck in the hands of a stranger she’s never met.” 

Wesley nodded, humming softly in understanding, but inside his mind was racing. Fisk’s request alone—that was frightening enough to consider—but _this_ sounded like something more involved than simply, “make sure my mother’s medical bills are paid for.” It sounded dangerously close to _actually_ taking care of her, not only financially, but emotionally as well. _Supporting_ her. 

He saw the blend of emotions in Fisk’s eyes—apprehension, insecurity, pleading desperation—and he couldn’t do it. Simply walking through the nursing home was unsettling enough; he couldn’t imagine having to show up every week like Fisk did and go through the same routine, pretending to be friendly with a woman he most likely would care nothing about just to appease a dead employer. Contrary to what his job might suggest, he didn’t particularly enjoy talking to people he didn’t like. Never mind the fact that if, in this situation that Wesley would do his best to keep hypothetical, Fisk would be dead, then Wesley would have neither the income nor the practical incentive to carry out his wish. And yet, Fisk still asked it of him. 

It sounded dangerously close to something one would ask of a friend. 

All this took less than a second to run through his mind, while his carefully guarded expression betrayed none of it. He gestured at the door and asked, “Shall we, then?” 

“Will you do it?” Fisk asked, ignoring Wesley’s question. 

For a moment, Wesley didn’t answer. He only stared at his employer, his face a blank slate, as the gears in his mind whirred to decide his answer. 

“Of course,” he said, looking Fisk straight in the eye, “It goes without saying.” 

He meant it.

**Author's Note:**

> I might continue this if I get the inspiration, but no promises.


End file.
